| MOP HEAD - Part 4 by The Bard |
| In the end I settled on the safe side of conventionality. I had enrolled as trainee accountant with one of the big London firms. For the next three years I had my hair trimmed regularly just to the top of my thighs � which was quite spectacular enough for perhaps the most conservative of professions. I wore my hair up most of the time at work although I did venture to a braid on �dress down� days. Only occasionally � at work parties and occasional dinner parties � did my colleagues see my hair in its full glory. Inevitably it was immediately the centre of conversation. Through this time I led a carefree metropolitan single girl�s life. I had a few men in my life for short periods, but they weren�t serious and neither was I. All the men I saw loved my hair, but they didn�t share Chris�s half spoken passion. I almost got the feeling that it was a novelty that eventually wore off for them. One boyfriend even volunteered to cut it short for me. Needless to say he didn�t last long. Then it happened. Just after qualifying as an accountant. I met a young man, a lawyer working for one of our clients on a merger. We feel in love � quickly and deeply. For several months it was perfect. I had never felt so fulfilled, so cared for and so complete. Our lovemaking took place with a passion that my previous relationships had only hinted at. His name was Mark. One night, after a most idyllic evening�s romance, we lay in bed. Mark was playing with my hair, as all men like to do. �Please promise me you�ll never cut your hair�, he said. Taking it as a general complement and no more, I replied, idly �Of course I won�t. I love it long.� �No, I mean never cut it. Keep growing it.� I was taken aback. He looked completely serious. This was clearly important to him. I was surprised, because he had never let on that he was any more than moderately interested in my hair. I felt my natural resistance rise up inside me. �I like it this length�, I replied. �It suits me. I can�t see any reason to grow it longer. It will just look odd.� I thought of letting him know that I had been considering cutting it back to my waist again, but that seemed unduly harsh. Nothing more was said that night, but it dampened the pleasure of the evening. Our relationship had moved onto new territory � the more serious territory of commitment, obligation and respect. Rather than let it fester, I decided to talk it out with him. Bit by bit I coaxed it out of him. He was, at first, reluctant to discuss it, fearful that his premature request may have put our relationship at risk. Eventually it all came out. He told me about his longstanding passion for long hair. He told me of several episodes in his childhood and adolescence that reinforced his passion (the girl in his class at primary school that could sit on her hair, the young French teacher at school with an almost knee length braid), he told me that he thought his wildest dreams had come true when he met me and we fell in love. He also said that he thought my hair was just beautiful as it is, and it was selfish of him to ask for more. He said all this with such humility and respect that my heart melted. I was ready to do anything for him. �How long would you like me to grow it?� I asked, smiling wickedly. He gave a broad smile back and said nothing. We fell into each other�s arms and made love. |
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